Its been 6 months, 24 days, and.. well thats as far as I’m counting.. since he walked out. Its been 1 month, 15 days since the divorce was final.
The first month was hard. The second month was hard. The rest are just a blur of stress and activity, moving, and legalese.
I really thought I was fine. Sure I had some pain initially, but I knew it was for the best. Getting us to the point of being happy together had become more and more evident that one of us was going to need a lobotomy or a complete brain transplant. I had sacrificed everything I could imagine, so I wasn’t signing up for the procedure, and he decided it was best to leave.
Part of his decision to call it quits was that he was already involved with someone else, but I know that wasn’t all of it. Things were bad for a long time, and had I had the conscience to find someone else I probably would have myself.
I faced the divorce with peace, despite bouts of extreme desire to see him publicly castrated which I pictured in my head, smiled, and resumed my day.
So I thought I was fine. I’d processed it. I’d taken time to myself. I’ve even dated some. I was going to be fine, superb, the epitome of “I’m awesome, and you all know it.”
But I’m not fine. Sure I have less baggage than some divorcees, but each day I find new things.. new small bags that pop up.. and I realize just how damaged I am.
So I decided to blog about my adventures in overcoming my own baggage, and trying to date again.